


Testing the Waters

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Consensual, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 18:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11949975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Clint decides to test the waters. Some might say, without excessive exaggeration, that Bucky Barnes is hot like the motherfuckin’ sun, and those’d be people who haven’t even seen him without a shirt. But hot and big and grumpy ain’t always the best thing to be attracted to, when it comes to Alphas, and Clint knows this from dumb and repetitive experience.





	Testing the Waters

Everybody’s got Expectations, when you’re an Omega. It’s a good thing that Clint got used to disappointing everyone around him early on, ‘cos it meant they were already used to it by the time puberty kicked in. The Swordsman - his mentor at the circus - he was a Beta, despite the Alpha act he always put on for the punters, so all that changed was he pushed Clint even harder, kicked his ass a little harder when he came back hormone-shaky and sick every few months. Circus docked his pay for the shows he couldn’t do ‘cos of his heats, called it good. Him and Barney talked suppressants, but they were expensive and Clint resented being forced to pay for shit just because of his biology; fuck Alphas if they couldn’t handle him.

(Mostly he was just grateful his dad wasn’t around long enough to find out.)

So it wasn’t that he got told he was As Good As An Alpha, like that old commercial from the ‘80s; he got told that he wasn’t as good as an Alpha and that meant he had to work fuckin’ harder, no excuses. Sure, it wasn’t so great for the self-esteem, but it gave him a fucker of a work ethic, and they weren’t exaggerating when they called him The Amazing Hawkeye.

For all that, he got surprisingly little shit for it in the circus. There was the occasional asshole, sure, but they were a bunch of misfits with every combination of orientations under the sun, so they mostly just expected you to get on with your shit, regardless what that particular shade of shit happened to be. And that was all kinds of wonderful, while it lasted, but all it meant in real terms was that he was quite spectacularly unprepared for Trickshot.

See, there were things about being an Omega that – they probably told you in school, actually, but Clint hadn’t had much in the way of traditional schooling. So the easily-influenced, the pathetically-loyal, that had actually come as something of a surprise to him. It wasn’t until he realised quite how far Trickshot and Barney were willing to go – until he saw the actual bodies hit the actual ground – that he gave up on his mentor and his brother.

It’s weird how memory works. Turning on them got him arrows in both shoulders, an impossibility of pain and months of physio, and yet the sensation that stuck with him most was his hand shaking on the bow-string, the way it had scraped against his calluses. He’d never felt that, before. And the next time he felt it, same shaking, same sickness in his gut, he loosed the tension in his bow string and made a different call.

Teaming up with Natasha was a kind of salvation. SHIELD claimed to be all sorts of progressive but their rate of Omega employment was still pretty damned low; Clint and Natasha were the first to be teamed up together and that was only ‘cos she refused to work with anyone else. She got him in a way that even Coulson couldn’t claim, and on the occasions their heats synced up – ‘cos whatever the fuckers in the Red Room had done to Natasha, it’d left irregularity and pain and hormonal fuckery in its wake – the post-heat puppy piles were _amazing_. They kicked ass, didn’t leave any names to take, gained a reputation that turned Strike Team Omega from a joke into a thing to be feared. It felt like vindication, in a way.

Of course there was only so good that the universe could be to Clint, so career success meant it was kinda inevitable that his love life was in fairly shitty shape. It got to the point that Coulson and Tasha wouldn’t even listen to the end of the sentence before rolling their eyes, resigned to the parade of asshole Alphas that Clint fell for, fucked, fucked up with. Clint resigned himself to the fact that him being attracted to someone was a pretty good indicator of their moral deficit.

And Bucky Barnes is, objectively speaking, a beautiful motherfucker.

So Clint’s a little suspicious from the first fancy coffee, handed over with a scowl and a grunt that from Barnes is pretty close to a bashful grin. He squints at the man, thoughtful, but he’s already gone to talk to Steve and is ignoring Clint entirely. Clint makes a mental note and decides not to look a free coffee in the cream, ‘cos he’s not nearly so stupid as he looks. It’s made exactly how he likes it, too, and it gives him a moment’s pause ‘cos they’re not even on first name basis, and since when has Barnes been paying attention?

Of course, he’s an Avenger, so he doesn’t get the time to think about it in any depth; five minutes after he’s tossed the cup he’s perched on a fire escape, nocking arrows just as quickly as he can fish ‘em from his quiver, calling plays as he sees them. He’s not entirely clear on who’s to blame for the fish people, overlapping voices in speedy briefings kind of a bitch to process, but one thing he’s sure of is he’s grateful he got to be out of the thick of it. Tasha, Steve and Barnes come back stinking, and he makes sure he’s out of guts-flinging range before he gives in to the laughter.

(He decides the coffee thing was an anomaly, after that. In his experience, no Alpha that wanted him would be able to overlook all the damage he took from the window that shattered beside him; Barnes just tosses him a box of Band-Aids and smirks at his pain.)

Two days later, though, and it’s a box of Confetti Cupcake Poptarts, which are pretty much gold dust in the tower. They’re left on his dresser without a word or a note, but something about the scowl just  _lingers_. 

Clint decides to test the waters. Some might say, without excessive exaggeration, that Bucky Barnes is hot like the motherfuckin’ sun, and those’d be people who haven’t even seen him without a shirt. But hot and big and grumpy ain’t always the best thing to be attracted to, when it comes to Alphas, and Clint knows this from dumb and repetitive experience. 

So he tells Steve he wants ground level, next mission. Lies through his teeth about shoulder strain which, on reflection, is probably gonna bite him in the ass later. Sam takes to the rooftops, instead, and Clint volunteers to kick ass alongside Barnes. 

They make a hell of a team, it turns out. Barnes ain’t poetry in motion ‘cos that’s Clint’s job, trained by the circus to be bendy and look good doing it. But Barnes’s got a sort of grace all his own, grace like an avalanche, a heavy destructive dangerous kinda beauty that honestly makes Clint want to lick him all over. It’s a certain amount of distracting, having that in the corner of his eye, but it means that he’s most assuredly got Barnes’ ass – it’s not hard to take out anyone sneaking up from behind when your eyes are firmly fixed there anyway. Barnes has got him, too, their fighting styles synced somehow in a way he’s only ever managed one on one with Tasha, and even when he gets smacked pretty soundly upside the head fighting’s _fun_ in a way he’d forgot.

The bad guys are taken down in fairly short order and sure, Tony had _helped_ , but a pretty decent amount of that is down to him and Barnes. Clint is left leaning against the slick black cladding of a building, panting through laughter, exhilarated and breathless. He aches in a completely different way from how archery leaves him, muscles he’s forgotten to focus on for a while listing off their complaints. Steve is across the street reading the riot act to Victor Von Doomed, Thor and Tony are apparently buying street food, Tasha and Sam are shoulder to shoulder on the hood of a cop car, and Barnes has come to lean next to him, blowing sweaty hair out of his face; Clint really doesn’t buy into the One True Pheromones deal that the rom-com industry tries to sell him but holy shit, Barnes smells _good._

“You okay?” Barnes asks, his voice low and a little rasping in a way that sends a shiver down Clint’s spine. He shrugs one shoulder, his arm brushing against cold metal, and he honestly hadn’t noticed how close they are.

“Bruised, maybe,” he says, “that ‘Bot got me pretty good.”

“Need the hospital?” Barnes asks, voice diffident but still turning to stare intently at the side of Clint’s face.

“Nah,” Clint says, and chokes on it a little when a metal thumb lifts to trace against the slowly reddening skin of his jaw. He meets Barnes’ eyes, startled, and then Barnes looks up at him in a way that reminds him exactly why he’s doing this, dark eyed and intense, his eyes dropping for a second to rest on Clint’s mouth. For an instant Clint considers cocking his head, baring his neck, seeing where that’s gonna take him, but before he comes down on either side of it Barnes whirls around and stalks away. 

So he figures that’s pretty much that.

Barnes isn’t an asshole, at least. Clint had had some concerns, considering the orientation relations in the time Barnes grew up in, considering the levels of asshole Clint still has to deal with. Barnes’d trusted Clint entirely to have his back, though, no mention of the fact he’s an Omega. He’d also walked away when Clint had been pretty sure he’d been giving off some unmistakable Signals, so - 

Eh. He’s a little confused, not entirely sure how to proceed, ‘cos the one advantage of being an Omega is that you never have to be the one making the advances. He considers just dispensing with subtlety entirely, maybe crawling into the guy’s lap during a movie night and getting some kind of definitive response one way or another, but consent ain’t just a deal for Omegas, even if that’s the only way it ever gets covered in the news. He’s not gonna use what he’s got to put Barnes at a disadvantage, ‘cos asshole that he is he’s never been that kind.

It’s an awkward kind of stalemate. The gifts continue: Clint finds pizza coupons, carefully snipped, in his locker, a bag of dog treats stuffed into his bag. He grins at the guy, wide and hopeful, when they run into each other in the kitchen, but Barnes just goes a little pink and looks away, avoids his eyes in team meetings.

Honestly he’s a little pissed about it all, and it doesn’t occur to him until he’s fighting off a wave of dizziness in the range, his aim bobbing all around the target, that maybe his reaction isn’t entirely justified.

“Uh,” he says, and then taps his comms and tries again, determined to stay on his feet until he gets to his room but still having to lean against the wall for a minute. “Uh, Steve? Scratch me from the roster for the next few days, yeah?”

“Will do,” Steve says, and – ‘cos he’s the best kinda Alpha – asks if Clint needs anything and accepts without question his ‘no.’

Clint staggers into the bathroom by the range and shoves his head under the cold tap for a bit, pulling off his shirt so he can soak it too. If he were better prepared he’d have a couple shirts in the freezer, bagged up and ready to wear, but it’s been a busy month and he’s had other things on his mind. So he settles for dripping all over corridors, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waits for the elevator, forehead pressed against the cool metal of the doors. He loses his balance when they slide suddenly open and he staggers forward a couple of steps until he crashes into something unyielding and warm.

Of course it’s Barnes. Who the hell else would his shitty luck allow?

Clint isn’t sure if his sense of smell is more sensitive when he’s in heat, or just harder to ignore. Either way he can barely bite down on his moan at the gently warm scent of him, and he’s helpless against the urge to bend down and tuck his nose into the crook of Barnes’ neck.

“Fuck,” Barnes says, soft and low, and Clint’s half expecting to get pushed away. Instead he gets a cold metal hand against the nape of his neck that makes him let out a sobbing breath at the relief of it, resting more of his weight against Barnes’ solidity.

“Please,” Clint breathes out, and Barnes’ stubble scrapes against Clint’s temple as he nods, awkwardly leans so he can press one of the buttons without letting Clint go.

“I’ve got you,” he says, gentle as anything, and Clint is grateful and Clint is pathetic and Clint is miserable as hell that he doesn’t get to do this _right_. There’s nothing attractive about heat past the hormonal, and this isn’t how he’d wanted this to go down. But he’ll take it. What else is he gonna do but take it?

He opens his mouth against Barnes’ skin, not exactly coordinated enough to do anything more, but Barnes doesn’t lean into it. He just winds his warm fingers into Clint’s hair and rocks him a little, barely vocalised breaths shushing him gently as the elevator carries them upward.

The doors hiss open on Clint’s floor and Barnes manoeuvres them carefully so Clint can stay plastered against him, lost in a haze of heat and Alpha pheromones. He barely registers Barnes asking Jarvis to open the door for them, of him supporting him across his living room and through his bedroom door. He doesn’t go down easy, though, onto his bed, and Barnes ends up sprawled half across him, Clint arching up desperately against him.

“Hey,” Barnes says, “hey, Clint,” and it’s maybe the first time he’s ever said Clint’s name. He traces his mouth across Clint’s cheekbone and presses their lips together, barely there gentle touches, soft and slow and sweet enough to almost ease Clint into sleep.

And then he  _leaves_. He fuckin’ - Clint is  _aching_ , he’s  _desperate_  for it, over-hot and restless and slick, and he’s got nothing to help him through this ‘cos he never gets the date quite right and he hadn’t wanted to make arrangements with anyone ‘cos he’d been hoping - he’d wanted – 

 

Three days. Three days of too-hot too-sore not-enough, of fake Alpha pheromones in a stupid red spray-can, of aching grasping  _misery_  that leaves him sore and fuckin’ exhausted and  _pissed_. 

Fourth day, he shuffles out to the kitchen, wrapped up in his softest sweatshirt and probably smelling like death. He watches the frozen burrito in the microwave do its little frozen burrito twirl, and when Barnes walks in, freezes in the doorway and then instantly turns on his heel, Clint feels entirely justified in telling his back to go fuck itself. 

Ugh. He’s not reasonable, right now. He gets it, he understands, he’s been stewing in hormones for days now and his emotions are all outta whack, and he gets that he’s being stupid and unfair but he also feels a little like crying. So when Barnes pauses in the doorway, tossing a hurt look over his shoulder, Clint just snaps. 

“What,” he says, “you couldn’t’ve left a fuckin’ shirt, maybe?”

“What?” Barnes says. He turns and edges into the room, looking at Clint like - okay, it’d suit Clint’s self-righteous fuckin’ anger if he was looking at Clint like he was something gross and a little pitiful; it’d fit right with his experience, too. But instead Barnes is looking at Clint - post-heat Clint, with his unwashed hair and his patchy stubble and his hormone stank - as though he’s something precious and goddamn beautiful, and thank fuck for microwave bleeps ‘cos Clint can’t even look at him right now. “I –“ he says, uncertain, “I didn’t think –“

“I thought you were gonna offer,” Clint mumbles, sulky and low. “I thought we were gonna - I’ve been  _waiting_ , alright, and I’d’ve asked someone else if I knew you weren’t interested.” 

Barnes takes an abrupt step forward, further into the kitchen, and Clint ducks his head more and yanks open the microwave ‘cos all he wants to do is throw himself into the guy’s arms.  _Fuck_ pheromones, anyway, and fuck Bucky Barnes and his beautiful damned face and the gentle kisses that’d made Clint hope for something that he should know by now that Omegas like him just don’t get.

“I’m  _interested_ ,” Barnes says, and Clint scoffs and slams the microwave door shut again, whirling around. 

“Then you shoulda  _offered_ ,” he snarls. “This ain’t the ‘30s, Barnes, you haven’t got to woo me to get in my goddamn pants.” 

“I don’t want a heat partner,” Barnes snaps back, and Clint fists his hands in his hair, furious at all the mixed fucking signals. 

“Then fucking  _leave me alone,”_  he says. And his voice is wobbling around like a soul singer, and he can feel the sting of water in his eyes, and he is humiliated and miserable and gonna punch Barnes in the goddamn face if he doesn’t - if he doesn’t - 

“I don’t  _just_  want a heat partner,” Barnes says, and Clint chokes on a sob, or maybe his stupid idiot goddamn heart, which has leapt up into his throat and is attempting to make an escape from his mouth. 

“Fuck, I hate you,” Clint says, sounding wrecked and dumb, and Barnes maybe sees something on his face ‘cos he edges closer, slow and careful. 

“I’m hopin’ that ain’t true,” he says, and he’s got his head tilted, a little submissive, nothing like any Alpha who’s ever wanted Clint’s ass, and Clint doesn’t have the first clue how to handle this but he’s willing to deal with it later, after he’s taken back the kisses Bucky had taken from him and left him with a few of his own.

 

 


End file.
